


Reasons

by irisbleufic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-01
Updated: 2010-08-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When reasoning fails, reas<i>ons</i> are what you're left with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasons

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in August of 2010.

**28 March 2010**

John sat up, blinked at his clock, and stared. Ten hours. He'd been asleep for _ten full hours_. Since taking up residence at 221B Baker Street, he'd forgotten that any such luxuries existed. John couldn't remember the last time he'd spent a Sunday morning in bed. He stretched and gingerly stood up, half-dreading what he'd encounter downstairs. His shoulder felt stiff. With any luck, Sherlock, too, had crashed in the wake of all that nicotine-fueled adrenaline and was still asleep.

"No such luck," said Sherlock, not bothering to put down the _Guardian_. "Well?"

"Well, what?" John yawned, somewhat irritably. "Good morning to you, too."

"How did it go?" Sherlock asked, idly flipping a page. "The rest of it, anyway."

John pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, still acutely aware that they hadn't made firm eye contact. "You know very well how it went, Sherlock."

"Congratulations," said Sherlock, with only a modicum of the hateful disdain normally reserved for Donovan. "When's the next _date_?" He punctuated the _t_ with sarcastic perfection. The only thing missing was a trace of irony.

John shifted in his seat, folding his hands in front of him.

"Let's see. I walked her to the nearest tube stop, offered to see her home, and was promptly told that although it had been fun, being abducted and nearly killed by a band of psychotic Chinese acrobats isn't quite her cup of tea. She also said I needn't come to work in the morning, so at least I'll get another decent lie-in out of the deal. If you'll let me, that is. No doubt you've already got more books on the way."

Sherlock glanced at his bare wrist, as if surprised. "Oh, is it that really that time? Gosh. It would appear we've both overslept." He finally lowered the newspaper partway, fixing John with a deadpan glare. He clearly hadn't slept a wink.

"Is that all you can say? Is that _really_ all?" John demanded.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes even further, somehow managing to look puzzled.

"An apology wouldn't go amiss. You've earned me an ASBO and cost me my job."

"There's no ASBO," Sherlock said, tossing the paper aside. "There's not even a court date. I've taken care of that. All I've cost you is the—how did you put it? Getting off." Sneered, that last bit, nastier than before, almost as if he were addressing Lestrade at his most obtuse. Or, worse yet: Anderson's much maligned face.

"Sorry to offend your Victorian sensibilities," said John, uncertain of how the jab he was about to let fly was going to go over, "but some of us have needs that go beyond almost getting ourselves killed on a monthly basis." To be fair, though, it had been almost _two_ months since the debacle with the killer cab-driver. 

John wasn't feeling fair.

"So I'm aware," Sherlock said tersely, but levelly. "I need _you_."

John leaned forward, blinking. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's been demonstrated twice that if either one of our lives is compromised, the other one of us comes in handy. You and your aim in particular."

"That's what I'm here for, then? To be your bodyguard?" John reached across the table and turned down Sherlock's collar, revealing livid purple marks. "That's working out nicely, isn't it. When did this happen? Soo Lin's flat? Is that why you didn't let me in?"

"Couldn't," Sherlock snaps. "In any case, I was perfectly capable of freeing myself."

"Found this in your coat pocket," John said, tossing the piece of offending origami on the table. "Pickpocketing the annoying has its advantages."

Sherlock crushed the lotus. "I would prefer it if you stayed out of my clothes!"

"But the fact that I carry around your debit card—" John removed it from his wallet, dealt it like the ace of spades "—and your paychecks—" he slammed down both of them, all twenty-five grand's worth of promise "—doesn't bother you in the least?"

"No. I can always get more money. There's always someone hopeless enough."

"Sarah wasn't so hopeless. Without her, we wouldn't have cracked—"

"We'd have got it eventually," Sherlock snarled. "Enough is enough, John. Is this about your computer? If it makes you feel any better, I'll stay off it."

"No," John said. "It's about my life."

"Have a think about what I said?" Sherlock said as he left the room, barely audible.

"About which part of it?" John shouted back, not really expecting a reply.

 

**29 March 2010**

As it turned out, the job center was out of leads for the time being. The economy being what it was, GPs were hardly clamoring for staff ("You must have got the last post left in the entire city," said John's case-worker, without envy), and it was unlikely that he'd get a good reference even if something else _did_ turn up. John thanked the young woman and left, fairly certain that he'd finish the strangler's job if he saw Sherlock any time soon. Best to avoid home for an hour or two, then—wait, _home_?

In spite of his leg's imaginary protestations, John decided to take a walk.

Let it be known that Mycroft Holmes was a creepy bastard, but an efficient one. John had scarcely gone twenty paces when the sleek, dark car glided up alongside the curb. Much to his relief, the frustratingly coy P.A. wasn't inside this time. John got in before his eccentric host could make the invitation. Mycroft sighed pityingly.

"How nice to see you, Dr. Watson! No more cane, I see. My offer is, I trust, beginning to look rather promising? You might take Sherlock up on _his_ offer, you know."

Inexplicably, John's heart skipped a beat. "I'm sorry, I don't—"

"Of course you follow," said Mycroft, patting John's knee companionably as the car sailed on through Westminster's busy thoroughfares. "He will have offered to split my fee with you. I can't say as I blame him. He won't accept money from me directly, but, bless him, he's not above taking it on the sly."

"I," John said, "am not even going to _ask_. And I still don't want your money."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you don't need it. The trouble's paying off."

John groaned. "If I could persuade Sherlock to cash the cheques, yes, maybe."

"How much?" Mycroft asked. "The antiquities entanglement, I presume? I'll match it."

"For the hundredth time, _no_. We're getting on. The rent's paid."

"I know," Mycroft said, almost laughing. "Sherlock thinks your kind housekeeper—"

" _Landlady_ —"

"—waived the deposit. She didn't, I assure you."

John planted his chin squarely on his fist and stared out the tinted window.

"Have a think about what I said?" Mycroft said, laying a hand on John's shoulder.

John bolted when the car stopped at an intersection, his leg screaming in protest.

Several blocks and one anonymous black cab later (they made his skin crawl now, and probably always would), he limped in the door to the muffled sound of a Vivaldi concerto just beyond the kitchen. At least Sherlock had the courtesy to shut his bedroom door when he had the urge to play, much good though it did them. John took the stairs one at a time, mind racing staccato counterpoint in a voice hardly its own.

_Home? Really, John? Home?_

 

**30 March 2010**

"I'm not your answering service," Sherlock said the next morning at breakfast, although it was more properly a late lunch consisting of Weetabix and Sherlock's deplorable idea of tea (overbrewed, too much sugar, no milk). "Sarah rang," he said, slapping the scrawled-on Post-It to the back of John's hand. A peace offering.

John contemplated the phone number for a few seconds, then crumpled it and took a bite of cereal. "Wouldn't have worked out anyway," he said, mouth full. "Thanks."

"You are positively vile," Sherlock said. "But you're welcome, and why not?"

John stared at him, swallowing. "Why not what?"

Sherlock gave John the almost-eyeroll that he'd come to so admire. "Truly, your sense of humor is dazzling. _Sarah_ , John. Your getting-off. Why wouldn't it have worked?"

"Hah! _You're_ asking _me_? As if you hadn't already worked it out?"

"I find deduction practically useless in such messy matters as these. Enlighten me."

John sighed. "She couldn't have kept up for long, that's why."

"Fair enough," Sherlock acquiesced, lips curving in a half-smile.

"You look far too pleased with yourself," John told him, braving a sip of tea.

"I've saved you a spot of trouble," Sherlock said. "I daresay it's more satisfying than saving moronic strangers."

"Oh, right, about that," John said, gesturing with his spoon. "I've been upgraded to _friend_ status, have I? Thanks for the warning, because I haven't checked my Facebook account in at least three years."

"I'm not sure what's more appalling: the fact that I let that slip, or the fact that you're on Facebook."

"Who _isn't_ on Facebook?"

"I'm not! And what about it?"

John shoved his Weetabix forward, appetite gone. "About _what_?"

"The whole...thing," said Sherlock, abruptly at a loss for words, both sets of deliberate fingers wrapped white-knuckled around his mug. "You know. What I said."

"It was—" John opened his mouth, and his heart stuttered again "—unexpected."

"Ah," Sherlock said, smiling ruefully. "The word you're looking for is _unwelcome_."

"No!" John protested, fighting the urge to toss his spoon. "I didn't say that."

" _Colleague_ , however, is what you went with. Nice save, John. Very sporting of you."

"Do you realize your brother is stalking me?" John asked, helpless to do anything except change the subject.

Sherlock looked mortified. "On Facebook?"

"In the street. Via CCTV cameras. Phone booths. I'm sure social networking is next."

"You and your bloody blog," Sherlock muttered.

"You leave comments!" John pointed out. "Your website has a fucking _forum_."

"This is turning into an incredibly unproductive conversation," said Sherlock, rising. "I'll be in my room, should you remember the point you were trying to make about your newly-upgraded status in my regard."

On impulse, John caught him by the sleeve of his robe and blurted, "Why?"

Sherlock regarded him for a few long seconds before carefully extracting himself from John's grasp. "I told you, don't touch my clothes," he said smoothly. "As for _why_ , well, let's just say that once one impossibility has arisen, the chance that another might also arise is escalated. Significantly. Enjoy your slop, John. It's only getting colder."

Sherlock left John staring dumbly into his tea. He finished it, every last bitter drop.

 

**31 March 2010**

"Bless him, but he's like that sometimes," said Mrs. Hudson, dusting off her hands. "Don't you think it's a shame, binning all these books? A charity drive might've been the way forward. And that poor girl. I don't suppose it worked out."

"We kept some," John reassured her, lining the last box up alongside hers on the curb.

"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?" asked Mrs. Hudson, her eyes full of pity.

John had liked the look even less when he'd got it from Mycroft.

"Yes, well," he said, scanning the street to make sure certain dark cars were nowhere in sight. "I only wish he weren't like that more of the time. I might get a straight answer out of him. A straight answer that has nothing to do with a case, I mean."

"He was very anxious up till you came along," said Mrs. Hudson, taking John by the elbow and guiding him back towards the door. "Wasn't sure he'd be able to afford the flat, the poor dear, and he was so _very_ taken with it. I'd have let him stay on a month or two rent-free, but I couldn't have done without the deposit."

John paused, turning his head to look at her. It was clear she had no idea where the money had actually come from. "Money's not an issue, I want you to know that. Sherlock's been paid. I've just got to convince him to cash the cheques. He's very stubborn. Currently, though, we're in rent for the rest of the year, and probably longer, at the rate things are going. He's worth enough to the right buyer."

"You're the best thing that could've come along," insisted Mrs. Hudson. "I do believe that. It's better than listening to him natter at that skull—"

"Speaking of which," John said, hand on the doorknob. "If you wouldn't mind—"

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Closet under the stairs. I just can't stand to _look_ at the thing."

"With any luck," John said, smiling and holding the door for her, "you won't have to."

Later that evening, John managed to access his online banking for the first time since returning to Britain. Following the few spartan purchases he'd made since December, there was a transaction—a transfer of funds, even more startling—from the account of one _S. HOLMES_ for the sum of fifteen thousand pounds. _W/INTEREST_ , read the memo.

John banged on Sherlock's door for an hour straight, but the Vivaldi soldiered on.

 

**Midnight**

Behind his back, John felt the door give. He bolted awake and blearily turned his head upward, rewarded with the sight of Sherlock's creased brow and upside-down frown. The violin bow—or was it the riding crop?—gently prodded John's shoulder.

"You haven't caught up on your sleep," said Sherlock. "Go to bed."

"It's not as if I can sleep when you're playing till all hours of the morning."

"It's not morning. It's scarcely past eleven."

John stuck his wrist right in Sherlock's face. "It's twelve now. April Fools."

Sherlock opened the door and dragged John to his feet. "Tedious. Are you drunk?"

"No," John said, yawning. "But it _is_ the first of April, whether you like it or not."

Sherlock's lips twitched nervously. "Right. Well, that answers my question."

John swayed, embracing the sleep-dep for all it was worth. "There was a question?"

"All that banging. The transfer went through."

"That's not my money," said John, severely. "I'm returning it."

Sherlock smirked.

"Given you spend most of your time cursing at automatic check-out machines, I severely doubt you'll be able to figure out _how_. I must give you credit where credit is due, however. Online banking is slightly above your garden-variety idiot's interfacing capabilities. I just _knew_ my faith in you wasn't misplaced."

John, suddenly struck by both the hilarity and the gravity of the situation, stepped inside Sherlock's room and shut the door behind them. Sherlock backed away slightly, brandishing the bow (of _course_ it was the bow) as if in self-defense.

"I wanted to tell you, I found your skull," John said, uncertain of how to proceed.

"No, you didn't," Sherlock replied, resigned, setting the bow aside. "Mrs. Hudson told you where it was. The two of you had a book-binning tête-à-tête."

"Still. I know where it is. That's something, isn't it?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress.

"I hope you realize that this will take some serious adjustment on my part."

Somewhat giddily, John sat down beside him. "What, being attracted to a man?"

"No," Sherlock muttered, staring at the ceiling. "Being attracted to _anyone at all_."

"That's fine," John babbled. "It's still _all_ fine, what did I tell you—"

"Do you have any idea how difficult this is for me to admit?"

"About as difficult as admitting you needed Banksy's advice?"

"Don't remind me," said Sherlock, and kissed John before he could respond.

 

**1 April 2010**

John wasn't sure what time it was, but he _was_ sure that it was too early to be lucid enough to understand that he was still in Sherlock's bed and that Sherlock was still snoring quietly into his left ear. John let his thumb circle Sherlock's tailbone, trying to ignore the idle arousal that had resulted from Sherlock sleepily shifting against him.

"I can't feel my arm," John whispered, letting his lips graze Sherlock's flushed cheek.

"Which one?" Sherlock's murmur was careful in spite of his grogginess. John had never seen him like this, had never seen him in any state other than his default setting of whirling dervish. Astonishing. The poor sod was human after all.

"The one that matters, unfortunately."

"Pardon," said Sherlock, but didn't budge an inch.

John gave an experimental thrust against him, pressing his lips to Sherlock's bruised neck. Sherlock stiffened, as if trying to mask the shudder that gripped his slight frame. John caught him closer, marveling at it. Sherlock melted a little.

"Good call. Physical sensation is one of few things that keeps the boredom at bay."

"I thought that's what the nicotine patches were for," John said, imagining he could kiss the marks away. How full of scars, both seen and unseen, would they be in another month? In a year? In a decade, if they made it that far?

Sherlock's laugh rumbled low in his chest, his long fingers finding John's hips. 

"You're better."

John grinned. He could push for all the impossibilities he liked.

"Still married to your work, or did you mean that in the sense of Facebook-married?"

"Hopeless. And as for my work, you're part and parcel with it, John Watson."


End file.
